


Cafune

by thanatosianCascade



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Implied Redrom Karezi, M/M, Masturbation, Sadstuck, Tentabulge/Nook, Unrequited Love, guilty pleasure, tentabulge, vantascest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:38:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1688636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanatosianCascade/pseuds/thanatosianCascade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Cafune" is a Brazilian-Portugese word for the act of tenderly running one's fingers through their lover's hair. Karkat's lover is something that Kankri has learned he will never be... Not that it would be right to begin with.</p><p>And yet he dreams of Karkat every night, and that opens its own can of worms. So he deals with the issue the one way he's learned how, even if doing so disgusts him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cafune

**Author's Note:**

  * For [black-quadrant (from Tumblr)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=black-quadrant+%28from+Tumblr%29).



> Originally written as a submission to black-quadrant on Tumblr from my account, hah-critical-wh8le, based on a prompt she had posted earlier in the day:
> 
> "kankri getting himself so worked up over karkat—over not being able to have karkat—that he’s driven to tears  
> bonus points if he’s driven to tears while touching himself because he should not be doing this, this is wrong, this is hypocritical, this is so very wrong and karkat is my dancestor—"
> 
> Anyway, enjoy, folks!

His eyes shoot open as a loud gasp escapes dry, parting lips. His breath comes in short, quick pants and his skin is unusually cold and clammy; he's broken into a cold sweat. "Just a dream," Kankri mumbles after taking a moment to gather himself. But just as quickly as he's regained control, it begins to slip through his fingers again. He dreams of this every day. Of _him_ every day.

It's driving Kankri up the wall, keeping him up day after day after godforsaken _day_! All of the dreams are glorious. In some, he spends time with _him_ , with Karkat. And every moment of these dreams are wonderful and pleasant.

But the dirty dreams are more common. Much more common. But they never last long.

Dreams of Karkat being rough with him, of kissing him senseless, of massaging and kneading his horns ( _Oh God..._ ), of licking his grubscars ( _Nnmph...~_ ), viciously tearing his chest-high pants off and-

"Stop it!" he reprimands, tearing his sly hand away from his inner thigh. It seems to have snuck down without his notice. "Come now, Kankri, you're better than this..."

But he's not. And he knows he's not. A dirty little lie he tells to help himself rest easy. He's fallen so deeply for his dancestor that there's no way back out... And so every day turns out the same way.

But even as he lies to himself, he recalls those vivacious dreams, those _tempting_ dreams that haunt him constantly in the daylight hours. And those thoughts along with those that follow turn him on. They irrefutably and undeniably turn him _on_. And soon, there is a slick sensation in his leggings as his bulge unsheathes and curls upon itself constantly, doing the best it can within the tight fabric confines.

"No, no, no, no." He is firm with himself. He fights the sensation. But he wants it. He wants it bad. Kankri wants _Karkat_ and he wants him so very badly, and he wants him all to himself and-

" _Nngh...~_ "

... And he no longer cares. His highpants are unzipped and his hand palms tenderly at his bulge. He's always been so very sensitive and it's always been so easy to drive himself insane. His phantom eyes roll back as he teases himself with the slow movements of his hand. But soon it isn't enough ( _No... No, it's just not_ enough _!!!_ ), and so he grasps his bulge fully in his hand. Pumps the bright red, flexible length and pumps it with smooth, long strokes, slowly, and he _moans_. He makes the most delicious sounds, all for a troll who he can never have; forbidden fruit. Then the fingers of his other hand reach up for his grubscars and just lightly graze them; he muffles a cry, panting from the combined stimulation.

"This i-isnt right..." he whispers shakily, speaking amidst the Pandora's Box of other noises he makes ( _I'm such filth for doing this... So revolting..._ ). The very thought is both shameful and exciting.

By now, the hand that is pumping his bulge and ever so lightly teasing his wet nook belongs to the object of his flushed feelings. Or at least it does in his thinkpan. "K-Karkat..." he breathes as his hand moves faster, his hips beginning to buck into his own grasp. And the sound of Karkat's name tumbling from his ( _I want to be yours..._ ) own lips hurts. It ( _Let me be yours..._ ) hurts because it's not him and because it's wrong, so very wrong. It hurts because it never ( _Please..._ ) will ( _Please...!_ ) be.

"Please let me b-be yours!"

He gasps loudly as he cums, only realizing that he was choking back sobs as he begins to crash from his Nirvanic high. He doesn't even care that he's made a mess of himself again. He reaches up for pillow, clutching it tight, and lets himself break down. "What's wrong with me...? That is my _dancestor_! How much more vile could I possibly be?" he whispers, shoulders trembling with each tear that flows. "Besides... He is not mine to have; he belongs to the young Pyrope girl..."

Then he takes a couple of strong breaths. " _Nobody_... Nobody is mine to have. I am celibate... And that way, I shall remain." He's lying again; he knows he is. But it serves as an imperfect panacea to his ever-breaking bloodpusher. It's better than nothing, he likes to think.

After a short while, he manages to calm himself. At least enough so that he is able to consider sleep again. He thinks about how the problem persists, and he thinks about how he wants to do something about it.

Then before he falls back asleep, he mumbles that perhaps he'll speak to Porrim later at midnight. She might know what to do.


End file.
